The secrets of the mind palace
by HowlingMary79
Summary: Sherlock is working on a case and finds out his mind palace is not a safe place anymore. Plus, a ghost from his past comes to persecute him. Sherlock purposely goes high in order to solve the mystery.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own the BBC characters.

Huge thanks to LB for the suggestions and the grammar review.

This story is set between series 1 a 2.

Please, feel free to leave a comment if you like.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1**

An envelope arrived for Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street. It had no return address, and it was an ordinary one, delivered by hand, with no postmark on it. Probably the sender had used gloves closing it, so it was useless sending it to Scotland Yard to search for fingerprints. At least, that was what Sherlock would have done if sending himself mail, knowing he would have tried to deduce something from it.

The fact that the mysterious person used all these precautions intrigued the detective. He was in fact in search of distraction, not having cases to work on at the moment.

He entered the flat holding the envelope in his gloved hand with a grin on his face, waving the item like a flag.

Watson, who was enjoying his day off work and reading a book in his armchair, eyed him suspiciously.

"You've got mail. Are you excited?" the doctor asked.

The detective let the envelope fall into Watson's lap, and quickly removed his coat and scarf.

"I couldn't make any deductions from it, John," he stated. And grinned.

"And you're happy about it, Sherlock. Are you ok? Did you hit your head?"

The detective frowned a little at the question. And grinned again.

"Don't you get it? Whoever sent this mail doesn't want to give me any clue about them, he or she doesn't want me to know who they are because they didn't write the address. If I could see the handwriting I would tell you if we are talking about a man or a woman. And there is no postmark. So they left it at our door or, more probably, asked someone else to do it. Probably a young boy. That tells me the man or woman is an ordinary person, with a face you forget quickly. I'm also quite sure there are no fingerprints, in fact if our friend took all these precautions they wouldn't have been so dumb as to ruin it all by leaving a trace so easy to follow. So, John, tell me that it doesn't intrigue you!"

"Well, I surely wouldn't have deduced all these details from an ordinary envelope," the doctor replied quietly.

"That's exactly the point!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I am very happy you broke out of your boredom, Sherlock, but think for a moment. Maybe it wasn't planned. I mean, maybe the lack of address and postmark is just a case. Maybe it's just a coincidence."

The detective arched his eyebrows and huffed, clearly annoyed at his friend's remark.

"So, do you think you'll open it or not?" John asked then.

Sherlock sighed loudly.

"You're so predictable, John. But yes, give it to me. Let's see what's inside."

The detective carefully opened the envelope; a single photograph slid into Sherlock's waiting left hand.

The older man watched in horror as Sherlock's grin turned into a grimace and his face turned impossibly white. He swayed a little on jelly legs.

Watson immediately recovered from his stupor and was at the younger man's side, helping him to sit. Sherlock let him help, still holding the photograph in his trembling hand.

"Sherlock, sit down. Let me see."

The doctor was shocked to see a gagged and blindfolded Mycroft Holmes tied to a chair in a dark room.

In the bottom left-hand corner of the photo there was a message made with cut-out pictures of bright letters from street signs, saying DID YOU MISS ME?

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he offered the younger man, hoping to comfort him.

Of course, it wasn't the right thing to say. The doctor should have known it, but it was difficult to understand how to behave in that moment. Sherlock had always had a difficult relationship with his brother but they were bonded, somehow, in their own way. So he didn't feel offended when the detective assailed him, standing up so quickly he almost lost his balance, and started pacing the room.

"For God's sake, John. Don't be so dumb. Your empathy won't save Mycroft. I need to think, I need to focus on the photograph; there must be something to help us to understand where he is."

"Want me to call Lestrade? Have his men work on it?"

"Don't forget Mycroft's position. National Security, John. Better not call the police."

"Alright, no police. But we can call Greg, he could help us without making it official. What do you think about that?"

Sherlock cast an anguished look at the older man.

"The problem is I cannot think at the moment. I cannot focus. My mind is… numb! Am I in shock?"

Watson felt his heart break at the sight of his friend so distressed.

"Why don't you sit down and try to calm down?" he asked, tugging the detective firmly down to sit on the couch.

"You won't be any help to Mycroft being so distressed. Stay here, I'll make us a cup of tea and we'll think of something!"

Getting up from the couch, he was prepared for an angry remark from Sherlock about his irrational habit to think over a cup of tea and how he was being predictable at the moment. But the detective didn't speak. He simply sat where Watson deposited him, elbows on his knees and face in his hands; the younger man had regained a little colour at least , but was far from normal.

Minutes later, the older man returned to the living room with two cups of tea; he placed his own on the small table and forced Sherlock to sip the warm drink. Satisfied that the detective was calmer now, he took his own cup and drank eagerly.

"What do you want to do, Sherlock?"

"The photo in itself doesn't contain any relevant information, the room is anonymous and it could be anywhere. The message is the turning point. It must be someone I have already met. That is clear. But it's difficult to remember every criminal I put behind bars. Also, the bright letters remind me of a sign of a bar I went to with Mycroft, but it was ages ago. I need to go to my mind palace for a while, John," the detective quietly replied.

Watson visibly relaxed seeing his mate had regained his composure. He gently squeezed Sherlock's left shoulder as he stood up, a simple gesture as if to say "I'm here for you if you need me".

"Alright, I'll leave you alone. Just… how long will it take you?"

"If I'm not back in an hour, call me back. Then we'll call Lestrade."

The doctor nodded and retired to his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Sherlock entered his mind palace to find it clean and perfect, exactly the way he left it the last time he had been there. Everything was as he remembered, except for one thing: at the end of the long corridor there was a new door, with a red light signal on top and a big padlock at the handle.

At that sight, something happened inside him, a physical pain inside his chest that Sherlock, being a complete stranger to emotions, wouldn't name it as what it was: fear. The detective felt his heart beating faster than normal as soon as he came closer to that new door. The air was filthy near it, and the lights were fading in and out.

Someone was inside the room, a man, calling Sherlock's name; one moment he was angry, calling him bad names, and the next moment he was crying softly, praying for him to open the door.

Sherlock listened for a while to the man screaming and pleading for his help, unsure on what to do. Suddenly, he realized there was a key in the pocket of his coat. He was about to try it in the padlock when he heard Mycroft's voice calling for him.

"Don't, Sherlock! Please, don't open that door."

The urgent tone of his brother's voice made the detective shiver.

The door to Mycroft's room was open; Sherlock knew something wasn't right, in fact the doors in his mind palace were always closed and only he could open them. It had never happened that doors were left open, unless he decided otherwise.

Sherlock turned back and walked towards his brother's room. Peering inside, he was shocked to see Mycroft tied to his own chair.

"Mycroft, what's going on? Why are you so tied up?"

The elder Holmes sighed in relief, seeing his brother was with him now. He smiled to him.

"I'm so glad you came, Sherley! You have to promise me one thing, it's important!"

Sherlock felt as if he was a child again, a scared lonely boy who trusted his older brother with his life.

"What do you want me to promise, Mycie?"

"You have to promise me you will never ever go near that door again, nor will you try to open it. It's very dangerous. Promise me!"

"Why? I made that door, it's in my mind palace, why should I be afraid of it?" young Sherlock asked in a small voice.

"Because, dear brother, there are things you don't need to remember. Things that will hurt you. I don't want you to get hurt because of me!"

"You said I had nothing to be afraid of, that you would have taken care of me. Always. So why is now different?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Please, Sherley, promise me," he asked again.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," the adult Sherlock answered. "I need to find you, you're in danger and I know the answer is behind that door."

"I am not worth it, Sherlock. Just leave things the way they are. Please, do it for me," the older man pleaded.

"I will find you, Mycroft. Just hang on."

"It's too dangerous, I cannot let you."

"You cannot order me what to do."

"Yes, I would if you don't…"

The sentence was left unfinished when the walls of the mind palace started to shake violently and the lights went off for a second.

When the lights went back on Sherlock found himself alone in the room, and he started calling his brother's name out loud. But Mycroft wasn't there anymore. The detective went back into the corridor and watched in horror as the new door, the one with the man screaming behind, was still closed but almost collapsed, only the padlock still in place preventing the occupant from exiting.

Sherlock's chest felt tight, his heart racing, and he couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in around him. He thought he was going to die. Until someone pulled him out and he was back in the light, in his living room.

He was lying on the carpet with John on top of him. The doctor's face was distorted with worry.

Sherlock tried to talk, but the simple act of breathing bought tears to his eyes. John was speaking but the detective was oblivious to his words. Sherlock held onto John, grasping the doctor's jumper with both hands, and looking into the older man's eyes in order to calm down and ease the pain.

"That's it, relax. Breathe, Sherlock. In and out, that's it."

Sherlock closed his eyes; he was actually feeling a little better.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"I couldn't get you out of the mind palace. I tried to but you were too far. Then you shouted Mycroft's name and nearly had a stroke. You weren't breathing. You are never going to do that again, do you hear me?"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go back."

"What? No. No! You nearly died just a few minutes ago. How are you going to help Mycroft if you die in your mind palace?"

The detective pondered the argument and decided John was right. It was too risky.

"We'll have to find another way then," he explained.

"Why can't we just call Lestrade?"

"Because, John, the answer is behind a door with a red light signal on top and a big padlock at the handle in my mind palace."

"You serious?"

"Yes, John. Mycroft told me. There are some memories I need to unlock, painful memories I think, and then I will have the answer."

The doctor studied the detective for a few seconds, checking his pulse and his pupils with the penlight he always had with him. He nodded to himself. Sherlock smiled at him.

"Will you help me, John?"

"If you promise not to nearly die on me again."


	2. Chapter 2

Same warnings as the first chapter.

Review or leave a comment if you like. Thank you!

* * *

Ten minutes later, John allowed Sherlock to enter his bedroom unassisted.

It was a stressful situation; the detective was used to solving mysteries and facing murders and kidnappings, but it was Mycroft they were talking about now. Despite the fact that the younger man would never admit it, especially in front of the British Government officer, seeing his brother hurt had shocked him.

John thought he should give Sherlock some time alone to regain his composure. Better not to push him on the subject when he was not ready to talk about it, but wait for him to process the events instead.

The doctor prepared another cup of tea while waiting for his friend to come back to the living room in order to discuss what to do. Fifteen minutes later he started to worry. The detective hadn't shown up yet. What if Sherlock was hurt?

 _Stupid stupid doctor you are, you left him alone! What if he fainted, hit his head on the floor? Or worse?_

He marched to Sherlock's door and called his mate's name. He couldn't hear any sound coming from inside the room. Putting aside his anxiety, he tried to maintain a neutral tone while calling for Sherlock once again.

"Sherlock, are you ok? If you don't answer me, I'm going to come in," he stated.

He waited for a few seconds but the detective didn't reply.

"Alright, I'm entering now, Sherlock. I swear if you did something stupid I'll kick your arse for the rest of your life!"

Gripping the door handle with more force than necessary, John pushed the door open; actually, he didn't know what to expect, but what he saw made him angry and very worried.

The younger man was resting comfortably on the double bed, lying on his back; his chest rose and fell in synch with his breath, and at least that was comforting, but his eyes were open, glassy and unfocused and his lips partly open. He was high on something.

 _Oh how stupid you are! You should have seen that coming. You idiot._

John's eyes fell to the note on the night-table. It was the list. At least he knew what Sherlock had taken. The doctor grabbed the sheet and read it.

" _I'm sorry, John. I know you won't approve of my method but I have to do it in order to save my brother. It's the only way. I tested a new drug recently, not exactly a legal one; it is an experimental drug that some hypnotherapists use to help traumatized patients to remember events they purposely delete from the memory, in order to protect themselves. It works but it can also cause some mild after effects, it depends on the patient. I must add that, with my drug history, the after effects could be worse than usual on me. Once the drug is in my system, you can talk to me and ask me to do things or to remember things. I need to open the door of my mind palace, the one with the man screaming behind. I should be able to see everything from a detached position without being too involved in the memory itself. You can simply call me back when I'm done. If it wasn't really necessary, I would never put you in this position. Anyway, if something happens to me, you're not responsible for it. I took the drug of my own free will and you didn't know what I was going to do. That is to be said in case something goes wrong. Last thing, you can find the list of the components of the drug on the second page of this note. Give it to Molly if you need to, she will help you. S.H."_

The doctor let the note drop on the bed. He was shocked and scared. He couldn't stop blaming himself for having let his friend do something so stupid. He should have been able to foresee what was coming. But he didn't know about the existence of that drug and Sherlock didn't mention having experimented on it. Anyway, the guilt trip wasn't going to help him nor Mycroft.

John took a deep breath and forced himself into Doctor Mode. He took his place on the other side of the bed, checked Sherlock vitals and then started to question him, like the detective suggested.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he asked.

"I can hear you, John," the detective replied in his calm baritone voice.

The doctor took another deep breath. He really hoped to be able to do what Sherlock had asked him, he wasn't a hypnotist but he had seen many movies about the subject so he knew the way they worked.

"Alright Sherlock. Tell me where you are now and what you see."

"I'm in my mind palace, in the main corridor. There is nothing unusual, there are many doors on both sides and they are all closed."

"What are you doing there?"

"Last time I was here, I discovered a new door. It has a padlock at the handle and there's a man screaming behind it. He knows who I am, but I have no memory of him."

"Can you see that door now?"

"Yes, I can see it. It's at the end of the corridor. It's still closed. But… I have the key in the pocket of my coat."

"Then open it. And remember, what you see is not real, it's just a memory so it cannot hurt you."

Sherlock held his breath and shivered in his dreamy state.

"Sherlock, did you enter the room?" John asked, his voice carrying his worries more than he would have liked.

"Yes, I'm in," the detective replied.

"Tell me what you see and what you feel."

The detective didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was just above a whisper.

"I'm hungry and I'm cold. It's cold. I'm in an alley, it's very dark. It's night. It's raining hard. I'm scared."

"Why are you scared?"

"Because I had an argument with my brother. I just wanted to run away from him but I got lost and now I don't know where I am. Mycie will be mad at me. Mum and dad too. I want to go back now, I really do. But I can't. I don't remember how I got here."

"How old are you?"

"I'm 11."

 _Oh Sherlock! What happened to you?_

* * *

 _Sherlock was scared. He had had an argument with his older brother._

 _Strange, now, but he quite couldn't remember what they were arguing about, it must have been a silly thing. In fact, what Sherlock always found so irritating in Mycroft was his way of presuming he was always right, and to know what Sherlock should or should not do or say. "I am the smart one," Mycroft used to say to him. Oh, how annoying! And above all, Sherlock hated the way his parents always took Mycroft's side._

 _The result of his own stubbornness was that now Sherlock was alone in an unknown place, completely soaked through because it had started to rain hard. It was already dark._

 _Sherlock scanned his surroundings to search for a phone box in order to inform his parents that he was alright; he would have to stand their reproaches and Mycroft's disappointment, but if that meant not being alone anymore and being back home, well, he was more than willing to let it happen._

 _Unfortunately, there were no phone boxes in the area. In fact, when Sherlock was upset and wanted to be alone, he usually went into warehouses or abandoned houses. One time Mycroft had discovered him strolling around a bad neighbourhood and, after harshly reprimanding him, he made Sherlock promise to never walk alone in those places. Sherlock agreed, just to end the conversation, and of course didn't remain faithful to his promise._

 _He met people who lived on the streets and in the abandoned warehouses; they were actually kind to him, and they became friends, somehow, because Sherlock was always respectful of them and treated them as equals. In return they showed him a lot of safe places where he could stay and warned him where not to go alone. Sherlock trusted homeless people and always followed their advice._

 _This neighbourhood, however, was new to him. He didn't know why he had decided to explore it today, maybe because he wanted to feel the thrill of adrenaline in his veins: exploring a new place always gave him that particular feeling of bravery mixed with fear that he was always searching for._

 _Knowing he couldn't spend the night outside in the rain, the boy scanned his surroundings once again: there were many buildings in the road and they all looked shattered and abandoned. Some of them had their windows boarded over, impossible to go in. Sherlock had always made a point of not breaking into a private property, if that meant breaking windows or doors. So he went on and soon found an old building, clearly abandoned, but not boarded up._

 _It was indeed a beautiful building, three floors high with a big hall on the ground floor; every floor had big windows perfectly aligned with the others on different floors and the façade was decorated with classic details, now barely visible under layers of filth and dust. A big heavy wooden door was hanging half-open on rusty hinges. The doors and windows looked like black eyes of a sleeping monster._

 _Sherlock was scared, but also more than a bit excited at the idea of exploring an abandoned building. The building looked promising, a potential source of mysteries and discoveries. At the same time, he was afraid to enter it. Nobody knew where he was, what if anything happened to him? Despite the fact that he wasn't going to admit it, his biggest worry was disappointing his parents and his brother, more than he had already done. But he was cold and he was tired. So he took his decision._

 _Sherlock's first steps inside the hall of the building seemed to echo forever, but the effect was probably amplified by his fear. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the inside, he was able to see his surroundings more clearly: the hall was empty, and the floor was covered with debris and garbage. At the end of the large room there was a stairwell._

 _Ignoring the little voice in his mind telling him not to go any further, he decided to explore the first floor. And then the second._

 _Every turn of a corridor and every closed door caused his heart to beat faster in anticipation of a possible fright, and because he didn't know what to expect to see. The truth was that he didn't see anything, nor did he hear anything, except for the sound of his steps on the filthy floor. The building was deserted. Most of the rooms were empty. The adventure was a waste of time._

 _Feeling utterly disappointed by the exploration, he decided to spend the rest of the night in a room on the first floor that seemed in better condition than the rest of the building. He sat near the window, facing the door so he would be able to see if someone entered it. Young Sherlock was determined not to fall asleep. His homeless friends always warned him about the dangers of falling asleep in an unsure place._

 _After a few hours, however, he lost his battle with consciousness._

 _He woke up some time later at a familiar smell. Butter and chocolate biscuits. His favourite._

 _For a second, he thought he was at home. But the hard floor he was lying on and the still-wet clothes he was wearing told him otherwise._

" _Wake up, curly head," an unknown voice called to him._

 _Now fully awake, Sherlock recalled the events of the previous night and panicked, opening tired eyes to see he wasn't alone anymore. A man in his thirties, as filthy as the old ruined coat twice his size he was wearing above a double layer of raggedy clothes, was studying him closely. Sherlock could smell the alcohol on his clothes and in his breath._

" _So, you got lost?" the man asked._

 _Sherlock didn't reply immediately. He thought that if he didn't talk to the man then probably he would be left alone._

" _Cat got your tongue?" the man asked again._

 _When Sherlock ignored him for the second time, the stranger chuckled to himself._

" _You're being too silent, pretty boy. I'm not going to hurt you if that is your worry. I was surprised to find you here, though."_

 _The man scrutinized the boy once again._

" _You know, pretty, you remind me of Davy. Such a sweet boy, Davy was. He had a curly head, just like you. He liked chocolate biscuits. You want some?" the man asked, smiling and revealing horrible bad teeth._

 _Sherlock almost gagged at the sight. He shook his head no._

" _Where is Davy?" the young detective asked in a small voice._

 _The homeless man smiled sadly._

" _He's gone. He left me, like the others."_

 _Sherlock swallowed hard. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end at the thought of how many other children the man was referring to._

" _The… others?" he asked in a whisper._

" _Yes, pretty, the others. Davy was the last to leave, but first there were James, Miles and Robert. Oh, and little Richard, he was the first one. They all left me."_

 _The stranger closed his eyes and rubbed his face with a big hand. Sherlock thought it was his chance to escape; he got on his feet and tried to run past him, but the man was quick to grab his arm in a death grip._

 _Sherlock shouted._

 _The man laughed at him._

" _You boys will never learn. I'm sorry, pretty, I cannot let you go," he stated, forcing Sherlock to sit beside him. "By the way, what's your name? You got a name, don't you?"_

" _S…Sherlock."_

" _Such an aristocratic name, it suits you. So, Sherlock, I want to show you one thing. It's my treasure."_

 _The treasure consisted of a small square box. The stranger opened it to reveal its contents: five little objects. At first Sherlock didn't understand what they were but it all became clear a few seconds later. They were trophies. Objects which belonged to the other children who had met the homeless man before him._

" _What happened to the others?" the young detective asked._

 _The man carefully put the box on the floor beside him, sighing aloud._

" _I told you, they left me."_

" _Left in the sense they died?"_

 _The man laughed at the remark._

" _They tried to run away from me. After what I did for them. But I didn't kill them, at least not all of them. Davy fell down the stairs, broke his neck. It was an accident," he explained in a casual tone._

" _And the others?" Sherlock asked then._

 _The stranger cast the boy an annoyed look._

" _You know what, pretty? I liked you more when you were silent. But I'm sure we can do something about it."_

 _Sherlock knew it was now or never. The moment the man released the grip on his arm to get a cloth in his coat, Sherlock sprinted towards the door. The stranger let out an angry shout and tried to reach for him but Sherlock moved faster._

 _He ran down the stairs and into the hall, not knowing if the man was running after him. He just kept running despite the tightness of his chest and the burning sensation in his lungs, until he reached the main street. It was dawn. Sherlock's only thought was to find a pub or a bar that was still open; the man wouldn't be so mad as to follow him into a bar where other people were._

 _Finally he spotted the bright sign of a bar at the left corner of the block. He sprinted inside and collapsed on a chair near the counter. Sherlock wasn't sure what happened in the next minute; he knew the owner was asking him his name and if he should call someone. Sherlock wasn't sure if he answered the man but must have done because after some time he heard familiar footsteps approaching him._

" _Mycie," he cried in relief._

 _Mycroft held his little brother in his arms, shushing him. "Oh thank God, Sherlock. You ok?"_

 _Sherlock sniffed and nodded._

" _Let's go home then," the elder Holmes stated calmly. He thanked the bartender, and helped his brother to stand up and walk the few steps to his car._

 _It was only the next day that Sherlock told his brother about the man he had met and about the killings of five young boys. Mycroft paled at the revelation, realising his little brother had been at the mercy of the child kidnapper (and murderer) that the press had been talking about for the last few months. He informed the police and they came to the Holmes' house to take a statement from Sherlock._

 _The man was found and arrested._

 _Both brothers returned to their usual life. Sherlock of course had nightmares about the events of that night for some time, but gradually things grew better and soon he was his usual stubborn self._

* * *

Sherlock panicked a few times while talking to John. Despite the drug, he didn't feel completely detached as he had predicted. John helped by talking quietly to him, reminding Sherlock that it was just a memory and that he was safe.

When Sherlock was finished, John called him back to reality. Both he and the doctor were crying.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John declared quietly.

"Not your fault," the detective replied and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Now, John, we have work to do."

John nodded his agreement.

"Are you up to it?" he asked worriedly.

The detective didn't look so good at the moment.

"I think so. And anyway, we'd better move fast before any potential side-effects start. Honest!" he smiled to the doctor.

"Want me to call Lestrade?"

"Yes, but tell him to come alone. I know where Mycroft is and who kidnapped him."

"Are you saying…?"

"Yes, it's the same man. He wants revenge on me. Help me up."


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the long wait, I had to rewrite this part twice until I was finally satisfied of it. I hope you like it too.

As always, comment if you want.

CHAPTER 3

Getting up and moving around happened to be a little too much at the moment for the detective. John had disappeared into the living room, making phone calls and leaving him alone, after Sherlock had assured the doctor that he was perfectly fine. Despite his stubbornness, though, Sherlock admitted to himself that he was feeling lightheaded and weak, the previous events of the day having taken their toll on him; in fact, he was feeling exhausted, but he didn't have time to rest, time was a luxury Mycroft didn't have at the moment. That meant Sherlock had to find him soon and then they all could have a break.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, holding onto the night table to regain his equilibrium as his vision clouded for a moment.

"How do you feel?" John asked minutes later, when they were waiting for Lestrade outside the front door of 221B Baker Street. "Any symptoms yet?"

Sherlock knew John was conscious he wasn't alright, and the fact that he was still asking about it made him nervous.

"I'm fine, stop fussing!" he snapped back, but the tone of his remark wasn't as rude as he intended.

He swayed a little and John was quick to steady him. Sherlock didn't thank him, of course, but neither did he try to hold back.

"I see, you're fine. Let me know if things get worse, will you?" the doctor asked.

Sherlock nodded and went silent.

John felt sorry for his friend. Mycroft was Sherlock's only family; the detective deeply cared for him as much as Mycroft cared for his little brother. John had always wondered why they were always bickering when they were together, as if to disguise the love they felt for each other; not finding any logical reason for a similar behaviour, he had come to the conclusion that it was a Holmes thing.

When Lestrade arrived Sherlock gave the taxi driver the address of a suburban area of London. The cab ride was made in silence: Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, John was worried for his mate's health and the DI was still trying to catalogue and organize all the information about the case that John had given him on the phone.

Sherlock left the car first as soon as they arrived at their destination, leaving John and Lestrade behind. The doctor hurried to reach him, determined to keep an eye on his still high friend; the DI paid the driver and joined the pair.

"What now?" John asked.

"Must find him, must find him…" Sherlock murmured, pacing nervously, still caught in a dreamy state.

John and Lestrade exchanged a worried glance.

The doctor approached the younger man quietly, resting his hand on the detective's arm, in order to get his attention. Sherlock flinched at John's touch and looked at him, his eyes bigger than ever; the doctor saw fear and anger on his sharp features; Sherlock gasped, as if waking up from a nightmare, a frown forming between his eyebrows.

"Are you with us?" John asked and when Sherlock nodded his head he released a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding.

"What was that? A flashback?" he inquired.

"Sort of," Sherlock replied matter of factly. "For a moment, I thought I was back when I was 11. A side effect of the drug."

"Wonderful," Lestrade exclaimed behind them in a sarcastic tone.

The detective turned to him and pinned him with an angry stare, but before he could say anything the older man excused himself to Sherlock, holding up both hands.

"Sorry, didn't mean to talk out loud. I just don't see how we are going to find Mycroft if you are not able to distinguish the past from the present," the DI stated.

"I am fine!" Sherlock snarled back "If you two could just stop worrying about me and help me, for once!"

The DI was about to reply but the doctor silenced him with a cold stare, warning him to keep his mouth closed, then approached his distressed friend once again.

"Sherlock, come on. Don't be like that. We're here to help, you know that."

The detective took a deep breath and turned towards John, hands in his hair and a pained expression on his strong features. John wasn't sure if he was speaking to his adult arrogant stubborn friend now or to an 11 year old scared boy. Anyway he didn't want to press the subject on him.

"Do you know where Mycroft is?" the doctor asked.

The detective nodded his curly head.

"Then take us there, so we can save him, the inspector can arrest the man and we can go back home."

Sherlock nodded again.

"Do you know where he is?" the DI urged.

"He is in the cellar of the bar where Mycroft found me".

The three men ran in the direction of the bar, now closed and abandoned, but with the sign still in place. The sign had the same bright letters that were used in the photo that was sent to Sherlock.

The front door of the bar was open and Sherlock slipped in. The place was exactly as he remembered it and for a second he felt he was about to pass out, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest and his breath coming out as short staccato gasps, the past melting with the present in a strange combination of smells, sounds and colours as the deserted bar came back to life in front of his eyes. The sensation faded as he felt John's hands on him, anchoring him to reality.

Sherlock blinked and he was back to the present. He found the stairs to the cellar and gestured to John and Lestrade to follow him and to be silent. Then he descended the few steps to the underground level.

The cellar was dirty and wet. It was empty, except for a small wooden table and a couple of chairs, one of them occupied by his brother. A few candles on the table were the only lights, leaving the room partially in the shadows.

Mycroft Holmes was still gagged, but the blindfold was gone. Sherlock looked at him in order to understand if he was hurt and when the older man nodded in his direction, as if to say that he was alright, the detective released his breath.

Sherlock scanned the room in search of Mycroft's kidnapper but the man caught him by surprise coming out of a recess in the solid brick wall behind him.

Sherlock quickly turned his back to his brother to see a familiar face. The man was older than he remembered, of course, but pretty much the same, still dressed in a ruined and dirty coat. His smile was missing almost all its teeth now. He was smiling at Sherlock. And walking towards him with a gun aimed at his chest.

Sherlock, who was standing protectively before his brother, instinctively took a step back.

"Sherlock, dear boy, please don't be afraid of me," the man spoke in a mellifluous voice, stopping a few meters from him.

The detective shivered at the sound of the man's voice. But he soon regained his composure.

"I'm not afraid of you," he answered in a firm voice.

The kidnapper and child murderer smiled again.

"I'm so happy to hear that. You see, when I was in prison there was only thing to help me to go on. You know what it was?" he asked.

"Of course I know. You wanted to see me again and decided to kidnap my brother in order to get my attention. Well, your plan worked. You can let him go now".

The man clapped at the detective.

"My clever little boy, I am so proud of you. You're right, I'm not interested in your brother, he's so… boring! I had to gag him in order to not hear his babblings. By the way, did you like the photo I sent you? I put a blindfold on him, just to make the scene more dramatic. It worked, didn't it? It was a lovely touch, admit it."

"As I told before, your plan worked. Now that you've got me, you must let him go."

The man gave a short laugh.

"I was told you didn't care for your brother, they were wrong. You… LOVE… him?"

Sherlock snorted.

"If you are going to play games with me, you must know that…"

"… you are the one and only consultant detective in the world, because you invented the job. Yes, I know, you're very clever and you have two friends with you. They could easily kill me, if that's what you want. I am not stupid, Sherly boy. But, you see, I was so lonely when I was in prison and I was always thinking of you and now I want to talk to you. Talking. For real. So please, indulge me."

"Or what? What if I don't? What if my friends kill you now?"

"I'm afraid there is a little problem with that. Your brother is sitting on a bomb, it's not activated right now but I can switch it on with my phone. I have no intention of using it, however, but I will if you won't do what I asked."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the mention of a bomb. John and Lestrade, on the stairway, exchanged a worried look. Mycroft tried to speak through the gag with no avail.

It was impossible to know if the man was bluffing; so Sherlock reluctantly played along with his game.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know if you love your brother. It's not a difficult question. Do you love him, Sherly?"

"Yes, I do love him."

The murderer clapped at him again.

"Bravo, Sherlock! It was difficult for you to say it, I know. I'm proud of you."

"Anything else you want to talk about? I've got a suggestion. You let Mycroft go and I will take his place and we can talk all you want. You said you're not interested in him. You've got me. You don't need him anymore."

The man huffed and pondered the proposal. Mycroft again muttered unintelligible words through the gag.

"Fine with me," the man finally replied and gestured for Sherlock to untie the elder Homes from the chair, the gun securely in his hand and aimed at the detective. "Don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock knelt beside his brother, loosening the ropes at his ankles and hands and finally throwing away the gag. Mycroft tried to speak but Sherlock silenced him. "Please, just go. You're safe now."

Before he could reply, the murderer pointed the gun at Sherlock's head.

"I suggest you do as your brother told you. Thank you for your kind participation. Now please, leave us alone."

Mycroft reached the stairs where John and Lestrade were observing the scene. From their position, they could only see the table with the two candles, the man's back and Sherlock's feet.

Lestrade and John had their guns ready to fire but they couldn't risk Sherlock's life, especially because Sherlock was now sat on a bomb with a gun aimed at him.

Mycroft was fumbling in the pockets of his coat to retrieve his phone in order to call a backup unit to help them, his hands still shaky and quite useless because of the long period of being bound to a chair.

The cellar was silent, except for the harsh breaths of the murderer and the quieter ones of the detective.

Suddenly, the murderer's gun fired a bullet and Sherlock and Mycroft's kidnapper fell to the ground unmoving.

Mycroft, John and Lestrade screamed Sherlock's name all together and they flew from the stairs to get to him.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked.

The human heap murmured something. Lestrade approached the two men, gun still in his hands, and yelped in surprise when he heard Sherlock's voice from under the murderer's body asking for help.

"Get him off me, please," Sherlock whispered.

The DI lifted the dead body off the detective, who appeared a little pale and out of breath but very much alive.

John and Mycroft were at his side immediately, John assessing his condition and taking his pulse, his elder brother simply staring at him in disbelief.

"You risked your life to save me, I'm impressed. Sherlock… what am I supposed to say?" the elder Holmes asked.

The detective smiled at him. "There wasn't any bomb, you know. Besides, what I said - it's true."

Mycroft Holmes almost choked at hearing those words coming from his younger brother.

"Besides, the man's plan wasn't so brilliant and he was far too confident in himself," Mycroft added.

"But still he kidnapped you," Sherlock replied.

"He caught me off guard… Sherlock, are you alright? Are you hurt somewhere?" he asked, watching with concern as Sherlock shivered and almost convulsed on the dirty floor.

"Hold his head," John commanded Myrcroft. "Sherlock, look at me. Don't fall asleep. Your pulse is racing, you need to go to the hospital…"

"Hospital, what are you talking about?" Mycroft demanded. "Is he…?"

"It's a long story. Now help me to get him on his feet."

"No hospital… Tell Mycie, no hospital, I don't want to go…" Sherlock pleaded.

"No hospital, I promise you. But let us help you," Mycroft assured, taking his distressed brother in his arms and carrying him out of the abandoned building.

"What about the body in the cellar?" Lestrade asked.

The elder Holmes grunted as he sat on the floor outside the bar with his shivering brother still securely in his arms.

"I'll send my men to take care of it. Now, please, I need to know what he has taken. Is there a list?"

"John… not his fault… You warned me, told me not to do it but it was the only way… I'm so sorry, My, so sorry… I disappointed you…" Sherlock murmured into his brother's chest, on the verge of tears.

Mycroft held him close and reassured him with gentle words, saying that he was going to be fine, that he hadn't done anything wrong and that he owed him his life. Sherlock sobbed quietly for some minutes and then became limp.

John checked his vitals and the three men released a long breath as John informed them that the detective was fine, all things considered.

"All things considered?" Mycroft asked suspiciously. "I didn't mean to upset him before, but I need to know now. Doctor, please, enlighten me."

John explained the whole story while they were waiting for Mycroft's car. The elder Holmes looked at the bundle in his arms and smiled sadly.

"It's my fault. Since the beginning. When he was 11 and he ran away from me and ended up spending the night at the mercy of a child murderer. It was my fault. When he gets hurt, it is always my fault. I am not able to protect him. I'm his older brother, I am supposed to take care of him but all I can do is to patch him up after he overdoses or after he faints trying to save my life. It was not supposed to be this way. Never."

John thought he had never heard more sincere words from Mycroft and felt really sorry for him.

"You gave him the best options. That's the best you could do for him. You cannot blame yourself for Sherlock's choices. He hates to admit it but he knows you are there for him and you will always be. He cares for you as much as you care for him. He's just unused to showing it to you or to the world," the doctor offered.

"Sentiment?"

"Exactly," John nodded.

"Should I stay? When we take him back to Baker Street? Will he let me help him through the withdrawal?"

"I think you should ask him once he is more alert, as for now I would appreciate your help. If you don't have any pressing business."

Mycroft felt immensely relieved at the doctor's words and stayed with his brother and the doctor for almost three days. He watched Sherlock sleep and he comforted him when the nightmares came to haunt him; he was the gentle voice to guide him back home when the flashbacks came; he slept with him when he needed someone to hold on to; he had blankets for him when he was cold and administered cool compresses when he was hot; they talked about Sherlock's experiences.

And he realized that caring, sometimes, is an advantage.


End file.
